Yearning (8 page)

He liked her immediately. They talked and she got drunk and Solomon bedded her in his usual hotel room with an urgency that left her gasping. Afterwards, they lay smoking as Barry White crooned on the bedside radio.

‘It’s good to meet a man who knows what to do with his hands.’ Her words slurred only a little.

He smiled as he stroked her thigh. ‘It’s good to meet a woman without hangups.’

They spent all Sunday in bed. By Monday morning he was home again, facing a day of lonely freedom. With twelve more days of holidays ahead of him, he luxuriated in the sensation of being satiated and alone.

Later that day Solomon stood by his letterbox and shuffled through a handful of mail. He uncovered another pink envelope. He looked up and down the street before hiding it between the bills and catalogues and carrying it inside. He put the envelope on the kitchen bench while he made a coffee. He was delaying opening it, toying with returning it to the letterbox next door, hoping it was a final farewell after the cruel disposal of its predecessor. He took a deep breath and pulled the letter out.

I’m not afraid of you. I’m not afraid of what I feel for you. When I look at you I am taken by some kind of god. I imagine you kissing the sensitive parts of my skin, my body running with rivers of desire. I feel the rhythm of lovemaking in my body. I know you won’t touch me, but it doesn’t stop me wishing you would. My senses are consumed with my longing for you.

We don’t talk but somewhere, in my imagination, our bodies are entwined. Our fingers explore each other’s skin and our mouths embrace each other. In my heart I feel the longing and I give in to it in the only way I know how, in the only way I can. In my imagination we are always making love.

How I long for a window to a time that is not connected to this life, a window through which I could escape, even
if it were only once, where I could make love with you. A space in time where there are no consequences, a place where I can’t be judged or told I’m doing wrong. In this place we could be free from shame, free to explore the love that swims between us.

He tried to laugh but his smile felt crooked and unconvincing. He knew he shouldn’t keep it, this sinful secret. He should talk to her parents and put an end to it. But would the drama be worth it, for either of them? With his history he could take no more risks, and if he exposed her she may decide to talk about what she’d seen with Tracey. And Tracey wouldn’t deny it. He’d been rash and stupid. She had him in a corner and he wondered if she knew it. He read the note through again, studying the rounded childish print.

Folding it he pushed it back into its envelope. For God’s sake, they were only letters. Harmless scraps of paper. He was being paranoid. What was there to worry about? As long as he left her alone she could send him as many as she liked. It was a meaningless crush and would amount to nothing. There was nothing wrong in receiving and enjoying her letters. He was just allowing her to express herself. He was her muse. If her creativity was inspired by him, who was he to stem it? Creativity was what life was all about and he was the last person to quash it.

He took the note to his bedroom and locked it safely away in his bedside drawer, with the other two. When he returned to the kitchen he picked up the phone and and called Alison to invite her over for dinner, wine and some guiltless pleasure.

*

Two nights later Solomon lay on his bed reading listening to the sound of The Bee Gees thumping in the garage next door. It was her sixteenth birthday, a girl’s party of dress-ups and potato chips and soft drink. He watched them arrive from his lounge-room window, a handful of giggling and silly teenagers dressed in wigs and glitter and platform shoes. Three straggly boys, their hair hanging over their collars and eyes, stood on her front lawn swigging from bottles of beer hidden in the bushes. Her hassled parents ferried platters loaded with party pies and chunks of kabana and cheese across the uneven driveway. Squeals of delight and tuneless singing trilled through the tin walls. Even though the loud music didn’t bother him, it took Solomon longer than usual to fall asleep.

*

Friday. The mail arrived at three. Two bills, a magazine and another envelope smelling of cheap perfume. Inexplicably excited, he slipped a butter knife along the seal to open it and pulled the contents into the light. His breathing quickened as he opened the letter, his fingers barely still.

I ache for you in ways I never thought were possible. I long to hear your voice close to my ear, my body longs for your touch. I smoulder in your presence.

I want to reveal myself to you. I want to open my heart, my soul, my legs and let you in, so you can see me, so you can know me, as I do not know myself. I need your
eyes to see, your hands to touch, your spirit to acknowledge that which I hold most deeply and secretly in my heart. My yearning for you.

He smoothed the paper on the cool of the kitchen bench and felt the painful longing in the words as they reached out to him from the page. He held the note over the bin and willed his fingers to release it, but they wouldn’t. Instead, he read it through a second and third time. The effect was like a drug. He was mesmerised and excited. And the urge to give in to her was beginning to overcome his better judgement.

Later he tossed in his bed, sleepless and alone. The digital clock glowed 2.13 am. Alison had dropped in on her way home from a job, fucked him in a rush and left him unfastened and empty-hearted. He gave up wrestling with his conscience and slid open his bedside drawer. He pulled out the four love notes, the pages trembling in his hands. He read and re-read them until his body bristled with want.

Solomon sought some relief in a fantasy of her spread across his wide bed, but it only served to deepen his restlessness. As he wiped his semen away he berated himself. What was he doing? This growing interest in her wasn’t right. He’d been down this path before and knew the potential consequences. He must be stronger, find a way to exorcise this desire. The letters had to go. He had to stop thinking about them. He had to stop encouraging her.

He fingered the pages gently, willing himself again to throw them out. He thought about hanging curtains
in his study, to block her view of him. As long as he kept his distance from her he would be okay. The danger was in proximity. He imagined her in the room beside and above him, sleeping in her bed. Hair tousled, arm flung carelessly above her head, those sweet, innocent lips parted as she breathed, the whiteness of her neck.

He glanced at the clock: 3.18 am. In the deep sleeplessness of the night something quiet began to take root in him. He felt his barren heart bending under temptation, the pull of the letters drawing him towards her. But it was impossible. Divinely tempting, and hopelessly impossible.

*

Monday. Two days since he’d had a visit from Alison and she was busy all week with clients and albums. No chance of getting laid in the near future and the letters were doing a slow burn on his insides.

Coffee, cigarettes and a newspaper for company. A neatly-made bed and an empty day unfolding before him. He had no interest in his study. He cast about for something physical to do, anything to direct his mind away from those stirring missive pulsating secretly in his drawer. He needed to occupy himself with something practical, something to keep his hands busy and his mind distracted from the persistent threat of an erection.

He wrote a list. The garden. Housework. A perfect diversion for his restless thoughts. First, the lawn. The physical exertion of mowing made him sweat, the vibration of the machine jolting his arms. Lush piles of spring grass lay dewy and emerald under a watery sun. He made himself another coffee and revelled in the smell of the
damp soil exposed to the air, reminding him of the earthy muskiness of a woman’s vagina.

Next, pruning. Fresh young leaves dropped at his feet. Twigs and sticks clustered in nests. Determined, he cut back the unbridled vegetation, trying to tame the eruption of spring and find order in the chaos of growth. In the tangle of green he discovered rosebuds on the verge of opening their soft, tender lips to the sun. He cleared away the surrounding foliage, giving the buds the light and space they needed to bloom.

Late morning he returned inside to defrost the freezer. He chipped at the white ice with a spatula, his hands aching with cold, and sliced his index finger on a sharp edge. Sucking and licking away the seeping blood he willed away thoughts of a warm mouth and agile tongue.

Lunchtime. Solomon leaned against the kitchen bench and cut up fruit. Sensuous juices ran down his chin, the bright sweetness of early citrus biting his tastebuds. He sucked and spat out the pips of tinned cherries, dismissing the image of a clitoris rising erect under his tongue.

Afternoon. The bathroom. He scrubbed the mould from the grout in the shower, sweat beading on his brow. As he sluiced the stiff brush in a bucket of hot water he shook off images of steam rising from fresh, youthful breasts. He wiped down the bathroom mirror and caught the gaze of a hungry man staring back at him.

Early evening. Tired from the efforts of the day Solomon put the kettle on and wandered down his driveway in his stained work clothes to collect the mail. Catalogues screaming SALE! SALE! SALE! and another rose scented envelope. Solomon held it with an unsteady
hand. An uncharacteristic curse escaped his lips, meant for himself or her, he wasn’t sure.

Carelessly he opened the envelope while still standing in his driveway. Desperation flourished in him. The folds of the paper were soft and worn, as though it had been carried in a pocket for a long time. The words clung to him as he read, holding him fast to the very thoughts he’d been chasing away all day.

When we make love the stars will sing. You will melt against me and our bodies will turn to oceans, with waves of pleasure breaking, breaking, breaking . . .

My desire turns me to liquid fire. The flames lick at my soul until I am warm and wet. I imagine every part of you blessing and kissing me. I want to dissolve into you. My body aches for yours, my soul cries out for your touch.

Would you surrender to me? Would you surrender to my longing for the taste of your skin? Of your lips? Of your tongue? Would you surrender to my yearning for you?

As he read, something within Solomon split open and bloomed. His will was dissolving – he was giving way, right here, in his own driveway, on a cloudy Saturday afternoon, with the smell of bleach on his hands. He was succumbing to this wisp of a girl and coming undone.

Without thinking he lifted the paper and held it gently against his cheek, its rose perfume filling his senses. A shuffle behind him interrupted his reverie and he turned to see a pair of ugg boots, thin shapely legs and a miniskirt. He looked into her face as she stood awkwardly before him, light pink lipstick crowning a nervous smile.

A young girl with love in her eyes.

His left hand is under my head, and his right hand doth embrace me.

The Song of Solomon

Now that she was here, now that he had her within touching distance, his courage failed him. She sat on the edge of his couch, fidgeting and uncertain, her knees pressed tightly together, staring into the beige depths of a mug of tea. As he sat to join her, he pulled the band from his hair, setting free his mess of curls. Her eyes followed the dark sheen of the spiral that lay like a whisper against his forehead. He glanced down at his work-stained pants and apologised for not being at his best.

She shrugged, smiling primly. Awkward silence filled the space between them. She wished she could tell him he was always at his best, but the words stuck dry in her throat. Silently she prayed that she wouldn’t make an idiot of herself. When she finally spoke her voice was croaky.

‘Go change if you want. I’ll be okay here.’

He regarded her carefully for a moment, uncertain. She
took an awkward sip of her tea and fiddled with a loose thread on her sleeve. He realised he didn’t know what to do or say. Her self-consciousness was contagious, damn it.

He stood up and stuck his hands in his pockets, but jerked them out again at the touch of the letter hiding there. Her words burned in his mind.

Would you surrender to my longing for the taste of your skin? Of your lips? Of your tongue?

He blinked. It had taken courage for her to come to him like this, but now he didn’t know what she expected of him. Did she want him to seduce her? Did she want him to talk her out of it? He hesitated, scrabbling to find his confidence. He grew impatient with himself. He was acting like a stupid school boy.

‘I might have a shower.’

She looked up at him, her eyes wide, and held his gaze.

When we make love the stars will sing. You will melt against me . . .

Porcelain skin. It was all he could see. Porcelain skin, lightly dusted with freckles. He forced himself to turn away. As he reached the hallway leading to the bathroom he faced her, leaning as casually as he could against the door frame.

‘Come and talk to me if you want.’

This had to be her choice. He would make it easy for her, but it would be her decision, not his. He turned back and listened for her footsteps.

She gulped, watching his retreating back. She felt a little dizzy as she stood up. Before she knew what she was doing she was following him. A slice of light fell from the crack of the half-closed bathroom door across the hall carpet. She hovered outside, afraid to venture any further.

‘What have you been up to today?’

She jumped at the sound of his voice. She could hardly breathe. She shouldn’t be here, she knew it, but she didn’t want to leave. She wanted to know if he knew. What would he say about the letters? What would he do?

‘Not much.’

The door swung open wider and he stuck his head out. ‘You don’t have to hang out there. I’m not shy.’ He winked at her with a cheeky grin. Slowly she slid into the doorway. He was standing in his track pants, dropping a towel to the floor by the shower. She watched the play of muscles on his back as he moved.